Fox On The Rhine

by Douglas Niles

  Headquarters, Nineteenth Armored Division, Luxembourg, 0955 hours GMT

  “You know, Hank, the papers are going to say ‘Patton took Metz.’ But you and I both understand that’s not true. It was men like yours, and the whole rest of Third Army. Goddamn it, how I love those boys--what a magnificent collection of warriors!” Henry Wakefield agreed politely with his army commander, but at the same time he felt himself growing tense. How much of Patton’s words were just bombast, and how much did Old Blood and Guts really mean? He suspected that was a question that wiser men than himself would be debating for decades, possibly centuries.

  Still, he had to admit that George S. Patton had a way of getting things done on the battlefield, and in the army, that Wakefield could only admire. “It was a tough nut to crack, General... but it’s been a fine week since then!”

  Indeed, following the capture of Metz, Third Army had lunged toward the Saar region of Germany with its typical aggressive speed. In a series of brilliant advances, units such as the Fourth and Nineteenth Armored Divisions had raced toward the border, bagging thousands of prisoners, striking close to the very Rhine itself.

  “But that’s not why I came by, Hank,” explained the army general. “Good news, for once. I’ve got a few companies of tank destroyers available... I’d like to attach one of them to you.”

  “We can always use the help, General,” replied Wakefield enthusiastically. Tank destroyers were not as effectively armored as tanks--their turrets were open to the sky, for one thing, making the crews very vulnerable to enemy snipers--but they had better guns than even the 76-mm Shermans and could provide a useful punch against German armor. A company of the big-gunned vehicles would make a big difference in his division’s striking power.

  “I thought you’d feel that way. Captain Zimmerman’s a good man--I’ve had my eye on him since Cobra, back in Normandy. He’ll report to you in the morning.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  “And Hank, why don’t you attach him to CCA? I like knowing we’ve got an outfit there with aggressive command and a little extra punch.”

  Patton phrased the idea as a question, but Wakefield recognized it for the order that it was. At the same time, he was rather surprised to realize that he would have made the same decision himself.

  Army Group B HQ, Trier, Germany, 2334 hours GMT

  “The great German military genius,” observed Gunter von Reinhardt, “is in good staff work.” He stretched one arm and then the other, then shook his head from side to side, clearing his mind from the intense focus of the last several days.

  Müller looked up from his own maze of paper. “I wish you’d make up your mind about the placement of the last two panzer divisions,” he complained. “It’s hard enough planning POL resupply with the limited stocks we have without adding in the complication that we don’t know where the trucks will be going.”

  “Ultimately, my friend, the decision isn’t mine to make,” Reinhardt said, standing up. “But I will get you the decision as soon as possible. For now, let me buy you a cup of fine gourmet coffee before we return to this fascinating exercise.” He glanced down at the maps laid out on the long conference table, held down with a variety of objects, numerous pencil and pen marks showing the complex strategic discussions that had taken place over the last three days. “We must finish this work, but I, for one, need to clear my head a little bit, or I’m liable to begin to confuse our troops with theirs.”

  The canteen was on around-the-clock status in Rommel’s field headquarters. The coffee was ersatz, but it was hot and it was available even though it was past midnight. Tonight there were also sandwiches and some stale cake. Müller piled his plate high.

  “Do you think this will work?” Müller asked.

  “Do you know, I really believe it might,” Reinhardt said thoughtfully. “It’s an audacious plan, and one with a degree of unavoidable risk, not even mentioning the well-known adage about first contact with the enemy. Still, this type of plan has certainly worked before, and that without our Desert Fox in command. I’d say we have a good chance of victory, and I can’t imagine any plan better. And after all, ce n’est pas victoire, si elle ne met fin a la guerre. Montaigne. It’s not victory if it doesn’t end the war. Of course, the current definition of victory is survival.”

  “But we’re still outnumbered,” Müller said through a mouthful of cake. “And according to your law... what was it, Langer’s Law? ... aren’t we already doomed?”

  “Lanchester’s Law. Remember, the force difference is critical, but the force at the decisive point is what ultimately counts.” Reinhardt paused. The situation was far more complex and had far more variables; he had an innate distaste for oversimplification. On the other hand, Müller looked more cheerful, and perhaps that was an outcome worth achieving, even at the cost of semantic exactitude. “A lot depends on our work. It is amazing, is it not, how much paperwork is involved in taking a plan that originates as a few sweeping arrows on a large map and turning it into the operational orders that make units and men move on the battlefield?”

  “And how much more effort it takes to move them around during the battle than it does to push counters across the headquarters map,” interjected a deeper voice.

  Reinhardt looked up to see Rommel’s scarred face smiling down. He shot to attention. “Field Marshal! We were sharing a cup of coffee--may I fetch you some?”

  “I would be eternally indebted for a cup of coffee. I would even be indebted for a cup of what they serve here. May I join you?”

  “Of course, Field Marshal. We would be honored.” Reinhardt pulled out a chair for his commander, then quickly got a cup of coffee and piled a few of the stale brown-bread sandwiches on a blue metal plate.

  “Thank you, colonel. Gentlemen, how goes the planning?” Reinhardt immediately answered for the two of them. “Very well, sir. We should finish the order lists by morning and have detailed guidance ready for dissemination.”

  “And the most important part of the campaign--how goes the supply planning, Colonel Müller? I think you have the harder job this time, with no disrespect to your colleague. You have to spin straw into gold, or preferably into gasoline.”

  “Just call me Rumpelstilskin,” Müller said. “I mean--” Reinhardt raised his eyebrows at the unaccustomed witticism from Müller. It must have been his fatigue; he knew how much Rommel intimidated the pudgy supply officer.

  Rommel laughed. “Good for you, Rumpelstilskin. You see, I am very easy to please. Only deliver miracles on a regular basis, and everything will be just fine. So tell me about your miracles.”

  Müller took a deep breath. Reinhardt could see some anxiety forming on his round face; he hated to do briefings, far preferring the meticulously prepared memorandum. But he was on the spot. “Sir, even with the Rumanian fuel influx, the key to the supply situation is our ability to capture Allied depots and resupply on the move. I’ve been coordinating with Gunter, and there have been some deviations from the initial sweep to make sure we are able to keep up supply. But it makes me very uncomfortable, because I can’t predict capturing enemy supplies with the same accuracy with which I can predict our trucks moving up behind the tanks. Worse, the intelligence information--sorry, Gunter--can’t tell me exactly where the Allied supplies are located. There must be a major depot somewhere between here and Antwerp, but where exactly it is, I cannot tell.”

  “Of course not,” murmured Rommel. He knew that was a point of vulnerability in any attack. “So your orders are, Colonel, that I must make sure to locate and capture a certain minimum level of enemy supplies?”

  Müller always had trouble knowing when his leg was being pulled. His eyes grew wider. “Orders? No, sir, not orders ... “

  Rommel laughed along with Reinhardt. “I must disagree, Colonel. In fact, those are orders, because I must follow them, mustn’t I?”

  Sweat actually sprung out on Müller’s face. Finally, he seemed to realize that he was being toyed with, took an
other deep breath, and said, “Well, Field Marshal, if you put it that way, I suppose they are orders.”

  Rommel saluted. “Very well, Colonel Müller. I shall follow them. I presume, Colonel Reinhardt, that the colonel’s orders have been properly implemented?”

  “Of course, Herr Feldmarschall,” replied Reinhardt, a slight smile playing over his lips. “All Colonel Müller’s orders are implemented with top priority and at once.”

  “Good,” nodded the Desert Fox. “I always appreciate decisiveness in the orders I receive.” He smiled as he took a sip of coffee. “I’ve read the first set of planning documents,” he said.

  Again, Reinhardt was amazed at the stamina and focus of his commanding officer. He knew that Rommel had not only read them, but marked them with detailed comments that missed nothing. He was able to keep the whole complex endeavor in his head, which Reinhardt found remarkable in anyone, and especially in one who had suffered such wounds.

  Rommel’s health had made an astounding recovery; the rumor mill ensured that every bit of medical information made the rounds of the senior officers. Personally, Reinhardt watched Carl-Heinz, the stocky driver and personal aide. When Carl-Heinz fussed over Rommel, Reinhardt suspected poor health; when Carl-Heinz seemed more relaxed and devoted to his engines, Reinhardt suspected Rommel was doing well.

  Still, the scars and damage from the attack were permanent. Rommel carried a cane, though he used it seldom. He had given up the black eye patch he had worn for several months, though Reinhardt had seen Rommel on more than one occasion moving a piece of paper back and forth to bring it into focus. There were moments of sitting and standing where there was obvious pain and discomfort.

  Nevertheless, no matter how many late nights Reinhardt worked, he had never known Rommel to go to bed before he did or to wake up any later than 0500. While there was a little evidence of fatigue in the face, there was clearly none in the intellect. Reinhardt wished that were always true of himself.

  “I see, Colonel Reinhardt, that you have assigned yourself some forward duties in this operation. You’ll be with the... First SS Panzers, if I recall?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Reinhardt. He felt vulnerable under Rommel’s calm stare. “At first I saw my primary role as necessarily being at headquarters to process intelligence updates, but there will be a particularly tough ‘fog of war’ situation in the opening moves of this campaign. By reducing the lag time of information and being able to make some on-the-spot analysis of the opening moves, I believe I can reduce some of the inevitable uncertainties.”

  Rommel regarded him quietly. Reinhardt had thought a lot about this. He wanted to do the right thing for the campaign and not be inappropriately influenced by Rommel’s suggestion that he take a more active role, and when it became clear to him that this would be strategically useful, he kept checking to see if his decision was flawed and personal. But it was too complex; he couldn’t be certain. Rommel, on the other hand, would be certain, and Reinhardt waited for the response.

  “While intelligence officers normally should remain at headquarters,” Rommel said thoughtfully, “I think this is one of the special situations where a forward perspective will be useful and appropriate. I look forward to your reports, Colonel. And now, gentlemen,” he said as he stood up, “I believe that well-rested officers make better decisions. I plan to follow my own advice, and I suggest you do the same. We will be briefing the senior officers at 0800, and I will see you then.”

  Reinhardt looked at Müller. The supply officer removed his glasses and polished them with his napkin. “You know,” Müller said, “that’s the most intense coffee break I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

  Carl-Heinz pulled the cloth over the boot one last time, ensuring that the leather was polished to a black, mirrorlike sheen.

  “All finished, Herr Feldmarschall,” he said, straightening and regarding Rommel with a critical eye. “Everything is in place. But are you sure you won’t eat more breakfast? You’ve only had four hours of sleep.”

  “No... thank you, Carl-Heinz. I am well rested, and as well fed as I can be, and I am, as always, grateful for your thoughtfulness and care.” The stocky feldwebel understood the dismissal and nodded. Rommel knew his cheerful aide would find another way to ensure his charge was well fed and rested. Eggs would appear on a plate before him in his office, a coffee cup would magically remain warm and filled. Carl-Heinz had enlisted all of the staff and most of the officers in a conspiracy to take care of the Desert Fox. The man had enormous natural leadership gifts; he was a man people wanted to please. He would make an outstanding commander, Rommel thought.

  The commander of the German army in the west drew a deep breath and studied himself in the small mirror, the one concession to vanity he allowed in his office. The glass was framed by a branch of oak that had been struck by lightning, and ancient superstition proclaimed this as a portent of good luck. Idle superstition, he knew... but then, he would take all the luck that he could get.

  “The generals are assembling in the hall,” his driver added. “The mood is good. General Dietrich is in the anteroom as you requested. He, on the other hand, seems rather annoyed and nervous, according to the orderly.”

  “And he doesn’t even know why I want to see him, yet.” Rommel muttered ironically to himself. “Well, I mustn’t allow the esteemed panzer general of the SS to fall even more out of sorts... thank you, Carl-Heinz. That will be all for now.”

  This was another minor thorn in Rommel’s side. How he hated having to deal with office politics! General Sepp Dietrich had arrived late last night with a letter from Himmler assigning him as commander of the newly formed Sixth SS Panzer Army. Rommel, however, had other plans for the Sixth Panzer Army, and those didn’t include having it under the command of men in black uniforms if he could help it. Dietrich posed quite a delicate personnel problem. A man whose route to military command came from being a friend (and personal bodyguard) to Adolf Hitler back in the Beer Hall days, the kindest thing one could say about him was that he was a capable division CO.

  Rommel did not dislike him personally but felt certain that command of an entire panzerarmee was well beyond the man’s abilities. Dietrich owed his newest assignment to Himmler’s mistrust of the Army--and of Rommel. Rommel was learning to understand Himmler’s messages; now it was time to send one of his own in return.

  Dietrich was pacing back and forth. “Heil Himmler!” he said with enthusiasm as Rommel entered. Dietrich looked like what he was: an old man fond of the bottle, a tough man, a bully boy gone to seed in a position beyond his skills. He would be overwhelmed by responsibilities, and his failures would end up costing the lives of good German soldiers. Rommel put a smile on his face and reached out to shake his hand.

  “Good to see you, Sepp,” he said. “I have an important job for you.”

  The SS general was momentarily taken off guard. “But Field Marshal, I have a job--after working with you in Normandy, the führer said--”

  Rommel cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. “I know. But I can’t spare you on a minor field job. I need someone I can trust.”

  “A minor field job?” Dietrich asked, puzzled.

  Rommel smiled. “I need for you to serve as my executive liaison between Führer Himmler and my own headquarters during the upcoming campaign. I need a man I can trust, someone who knows the complexities of Berlin...”

  “But Herr Feldmarschall!” Dietrich’s objection was immediate, and was reflected by his interruption. “I am a fighting soldier! Besides, my assignment was given to me directly by the führer himself. My loyalty and service is unquestioned!”

  “That’s exactly why I need you in Berlin. This is the most important campaign in the war, and the führer deserves the best coordination and liaison possible. No one else can do that role. It has to be you.”

  Flattered in spite of himself, Dietrich wavered only slightly before returning to the offensive. “But I have fought in Russia, in France, for years! All my
life’s work has brought me to this point!” He was moving into pleading now. Time for Rommel to administer the coup de grace.

  “There is something else, Sepp. Something that has to remain between you and me for now.”

  Dietrich paused, suspicious. Rommel lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Upon victory, I have a special assignment for you.”

  Another pause. “What--what is it?” asked Dietrich in a tremulous voice. Rommel let the suspense build. The fish was chasing the bait now.

  “I need a military governor for Antwerp, someone who can crush the resistance and hold the port for me against all comers. I believe only you can do this.”

  Dietrich’s rheumy eyes looked at Rommel. “But why can’t I command the panzerarmee and then transfer to be military governor?” he objected.

  “While you are in Berlin, you need to gather your own forces to come in and begin the new occupation,” Rommel said in a conspiratorial voice. “The Sixth will be moving out almost immediately, and you have to be ready to move in right behind us. There won’t be time otherwise. Of course, if you feel being military governor is too low of an assignment for you...”

  “No, no, of course not!” said Dietrich hastily. “So you want me to maintain liaison and at the same time arrange for an SS occupation force?”

  “Exactly!” said Rommel. “Can you do it for me?”

  “Of course I can,” said Dietrich proudly. The men shook hands. “By the way, have you decided who gets the Sixth?” This was a delicate moment. “I think so. A panzer general who was shuffled aside after Moscow, ’41.”

  “Guderian?” Dietrich’s face registered surprise and, perhaps, a hint of understanding. After all, Colonel General “Hurrying Heinz” Guderian was the godfather of German Blitzkrieg operations and had commanded some of the most brilliant dashes through Poland, France, and Russia during the early years of the war. He had fallen from favor with Hitler because of his failure to capture Moscow at the end of 1941, but military men understood that the real fault for that failure lay with the conflicting orders issued by Hitler himself.